


The Year Without Fairies

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-16
Updated: 2004-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-11 23:33:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The full moon fell on Christmas Eve, and Sirius is determined that -- regardless -- Remus will have a perfect Christmas Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Year Without Fairies

Sirius had always found it easiest to concentrate when his tongue was sticking out of his mouth (although not when it was sticking in someone else's, quite contrary to everything James liked to say). On this particular morning, as the half-light of just-past dawn crept through the infirmary, the jaunty angle of Sirius's tongue suggested heartfelt mental application. With particular care he looped of a length of orange paper through an existing loop of green, and mused upon the fact that making Christmas decorations was trickier than he'd ever imagined. Ripping a length of spell-o-tape from the dispenser on the bedside table, he fixed Mr. Orange in place (for reasons he didn't like to examine too closely, the loops were male, just were, and he hoped this didn't mean he'd be giving his broomstick a name soon or calling his cock The General by sundown) and reached for Mr. Pink. Mr. Pink was followed by Mr. Yellow and Mr. Blue, with Mr Purple, and Mr. Sparkly Fascinating Vaguely Gilly-Weed Silver following close behind.

Sirius wiped his brow with the back of his hand. Twenty-seven loops down, only three hundred thousand to go.

Give or take a few.

He'd considered his other options before ordering the paper from a supply shop in Hogsmeade. He'd always liked sparkling clusters of fairies himself (a thought which gave him sudden pause, given his recent introduction to the pleasures of snogging boys) but Remus had made him promise to never, ever order them again after he'd reached an all-time record in accidental decapitations the year before.

Then there'd been Zonko's special "Christmas in a Box," – ready charmed decorations that would, in principle, drape themselves artistically from door-frames and windowsills at a word. It had been tempting, but Sirius had thought of his general luck (not to mention the basic principle of karma) and decided not to risk unleashing a crate of everlasting farts at Remus on Christmas just because the universe had a cruel sense of humor.

He'd dismissed snow charms, incantations to deck the halls, and clever little spells that made the walls ripple in seasonal colors (mostly because he felt sure that would make him puke). This left him with paper chains – old fashioned, Muggle paper chains that took an age to put together but which had a certain amount of non-magical charm. He fastened another loop of paper in place and looked with satisfaction at his handiwork. The loops were fat in some places, thin in others, and crooked as crooked could be. All in all it was bloody perfect, he thought, as he stood to fix the makeshift garland to the end of Remus's hospital bed. "Happy Christmas," he murmured, smiling affectionately at the recovering werewolf who was snuffling gently beneath several layers of blankets. It was a fearsome thing, this grip the sleeping boy had upon his heart.

It was hours before Remus himself woke, eyelids fluttering as he squinted into the bright sunlight of Christmas Day. He frowned, made a soft noise of protest at the back of his throat, and tried to bring the infirmary into focus. Something seemed odd . . . different . . . _strange_ . . .

He blinked, and his vision cleared. From every rafter, every window, and every lantern in the room hung inexpert loops of hand-made paper chains – riotous, mismatched, and clumsily constructed. Remus smiled, the soul-deep ache of his mending bones fading just a little under the benediction of such effort. He twisted his head, searching for Sirius, and felt his smile deepen. The Black arse was still fixed solidly to the seat of a very uncomfortable chair beside his bed, but the Black body was thrown forward, an arm extending over Remus's thighs, a thin strip of paper still clutched feebly in one hand. Sirius slept like the dead, and was probably drooling, Remus mused, but his presence was perhaps the greatest Christmas gift he'd ever received.

"Thank you," he whispered into the empty silence of a deserted school.

And Sirius sat straight up, blinking wildly, hair in disarray. "Whuh? Where? Hmm?" he said, just as a length of paper chain fell from the ceiling and landed on his head. "Gah!" he yelled, jumping up and thrashing at the offending decoration with an abandon previously reserved for the regrettable moments when private hairs got caught in reckless zippers.

Remus felt glee bubble up from his stomach and let loose a rusty, appreciative laugh. "Calm down," he said, voice hoarse. "S'just paper."

Sirius spun to face him, shreds of colored paper in his hair, smashed against his cheek, and clinging to the wool of his sweater. "What?"

"Paper." Remus smiled. "Happy Christmas, Padfoot."

It was as if someone had thrown a switch – Sirius beamed, the sleep that had fogged his actions so far dissipating in an instant. "S'Christmas, Moony!" he crowed, bounding forward to kneel beside the bed.

Remus smiled. "Tis. You're right."

"How you feeling?"

"Sore." He struggled with a yawn. "Usual." He let his gaze drift from Sirius to the decorations for just a second. "But this – this is something else. Did you do this? Do this yourself?"

Sirius glowed. "I did. S'Christmas. Have to be jolly on Christmas, even if you are all snapped and mending and torn up around the edges."

"Thank you." There was an unexpected note of tenderness in Remus's voice and Sirius found it hard to swallow past the prickling thing lodged at the back of his throat.

"No, no, no," he managed, taking a stab at sounding stern. "We're not being maudlin'. Are jolly, Christmassy, and generally festive, with perhaps a side of unbridled man-lust to go with our pudding."

"There's pudding?" asked Remus, hopefully.

Sirius smacked him gently up the head. "Man-lust, Moony! You must mend and be well and revel in the decorative nightmare I've concocted because my man-lust will not be contained for long."

Remus smiled. "P'raps I should sleep a bit more, then. If there's man-lust to be assuaged." His eyes were already heavy.

Sirius ghosted chapped lips over Remus's forehead, hand resting against the latter's hair. "Perhaps," he said, as Remus's eyes fluttered closed. "Perhaps you should."

And with Remus sighing himself into sleep, Sirius sat back in his chair and picked up a strip of bright yellow paper. He had looping and sticking and hanging to do – miles of paper chains yet to make. He glanced at the infirmary, at the gaudy spill of color that tumbled recklessly in every direction. "One loop for every moment you've made me happy," he whispered, fixing a strip of red to his yellow, and adding a strip of green. "So many more loops to go."


End file.
